Chapter Text
Tim stumbled into the manor just past three in the morning, cold, soaked, mud-caked, and cursing the Gotham transit system like it personally offended him. Which, to be fair, it had. Three train delays, one power outage, and a pigeon with a death wish had all conspired to make him miss dinner. Again.
His boots left a trail of questionable slush across the floor as he headed for the only thing keeping him from setting the city on fire: a hot cup of coffee waiting patiently on the study desk.
He didn’t question how Alfred always knew. Madness lays that way.
But tonight, the study had a vibe. Not the usual warm, book-scented, mahogany-and-leather vibe. This was more... haunted library meets freezer aisle.
Tim paused, mug halfway to his mouth. The shadows in the corner shifted. Something white and wavy hovered near the window, glowing faintly like a nightlight having an existential crisis.
Then it sneezed.
Loudly.
Tim blinked. “Come on,” he said flatly, not even lowering the mug. “Hallucinations with allergies? That’s a new low, even for me. Can we keep the volume down? Some of us are trying to caffeinate our trauma.”
“Sorry,” the thing sniffled. “I caught a cold. Ghost immune systems are a myth, turns out.”
That made Tim pause.
“You talk,” he said slowly, eyeing the... entity. It wasn’t just mist anymore. A white-haired teenager stood shivering, slightly see-through, dressed like a radioactive ski patrol dropout: Black suit, white gloves, green glowing eyes.
Tim squinted. “Are you a ghost or just a very committed cosplayer?”
“Uhh...” The ghost winced. “Yes?”
Tim pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. “Great. I get stuck in traffic, miss dinner, and now I’ve got spectral visitors with stage fright.”
“Hey,” the ghost protested weakly. “I was trying to be spooky, but you looked like you’d punch me if I breathed wrong.”
“No offense,” Tim said, “but I’ve seen scarier things in my inbox.”
There was an awkward pause. The ghost sniffled again and hugged his arms. Despite the whole ‘being dead’ thing, he looked... nervous. Shy, even. And very green.
Tim narrowed his eyes. “Alright, Casper. Why are you here?”
“I’d tell you,” the ghost said, rubbing the back of his neck, “but you’re kind of—what’s the word—ah yes: hangry. And if I explain now, you’ll just assume I’m lying or trying to eat your soul or something.”
Tim sighed dramatically. “First of all, if you're trying to haunt me, you're doing a terrible job. Second, I don't eat after nine. Third, I already assume you’re lying, but I’m curious enough to let you keep talking.”
The ghost gave a nervous little bow, somehow managing to look both embarrassed and theatrical.
“Well, in my defense,” he said, “ghosts are just as freaked out by light as you are by the dark. So maybe let’s not judge?”
“Welcome to Gotham,” Tim muttered. “We judge everything. Start talking, ecto-boy.”
The ghost smirked faintly. “Ecto-boy? That’s new. I think I like you.”
Tim raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see if the feeling’s mutual, but heads-up—if you drip any more glowing slime on Alfred’s floor, you’re getting exorcised with holy espresso.”
Tim leaned against the desk, coffee cradled in both hands, his expression somewhere between I’m too tired for this and this better not be a gas leak-induced hallucination .
“No offense,” he said flatly, “but ghosts have the ultimate ‘walk in uninvited’ privileges. Meanwhile, I get judged for showing up five minutes late to a Zoom call.”
The ghost scratched the back of his neck, which shimmered faintly at the edges. “Okay, yeah, fair. But in my defense, you looked like you were going to throw that mug at me. I thought maybe you were one of those aggressive haunt-ees.”
Tim raised a brow. “I am aggressive. Doesn’t mean I’m not also curious. Now, are you here to rattle chains or pitch a multi-level ghost marketing scheme? Because I will slam the door in your face. Metaphorically.”
The ghost floated over and sat cross-legged midair like it was the world’s saddest meditation session. “I’m here on official spooky business, actually. Haunting logistics. Property maintenance. You know. Ghost stuff.”
Tim blinked. “Haunting logistics.”
“Yeah.” The ghost grinned, revealing fangs—tiny ones, kind of adorable if Tim were into that sort of thing. “See, houses are sort of… zoned by the amount of ghosts. Class A through E. Based on how many dead guys you can fit between the walls without alerting the living.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Tim said, sipping his coffee. “And I live with people who think dressing like a bat is a mental health treatment.”
The ghost shrugged. “Hey, I don’t make the rules. I just... haunt by them. Anyways, this place is classified as a ‘One-Ghost Dwelling.’ The last guy was a Spectre, real traditional—chains, wails, making faces in the mirror while you shave. Real old-school.”
Tim narrowed his eyes. “I’ve lived here for a year. This is the first I’m hearing about a roommate with a death certificate.”
“Yeah, he bailed. Third floor. Around September. You stopped getting cold spots, right?”
Tim paused. “...I thought that was just the insulation finally working.”
“Nah, he moved on. Didn’t file the proper exit paperwork, though, so no one told the registry you were available. We only found out because someone in Afterlife Admin spilled their coffee on the wrong form. Classic bureaucracy.”
Tim stared. “There’s a ghost bureaucracy ?”
“Unfortunately. I’m here to evaluate the vacancy and figure out what kind of spirit you qualify for.”
“Hold on.” Tim held up a finger. “You mean there’s a haunting assignment process ? Like some kind of supernatural roommate lottery?”
“Yep. Normally, Spectres get first dibs—they’re the old-money types, really snooty, lotta unfinished business. Then if they pass, it goes down the line: Phantoms—me—then goblins, elves, sprites, and if it’s really slim pickings, the nicest Ghoul available.”
“I cannot believe this is happening,” Tim muttered.
The ghost nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, neither could I. The Spectres apparently blacklisted your address because—and I quote—‘the guy has zero fear response and keeps serving bad wine.’ So now they send in the lower tiers to check out the scene.”
Tim blinked. “You’re telling me I got skipped over by professional haunters because I serve bad wine ?”
“And because you live like you’re daring someone to try and scare you,” the ghost added. “But the coffee? Top-tier. That’s why I volunteered.”
Tim snorted. “So you’re here on the recommendation of a roast?”
“Exactly.” He beamed, a little too proud of the pun. “It was grounds for a visit.”
Tim stared at him for three full seconds. “You realize I have a sword umbrella and no fear of stabbing transparent things, right?”
The ghost held up both hands. “Hey, I’m just saying, if you keep brewing coffee like this, I might have to fight off the rest of the underworld for the lease.”
Tim sighed. “Well, I did want a quiet night. Instead, I got an undead caffeine addict with boundary issues.”
“And you could’ve gotten a banshee who sings off-key at 3 a.m. So really, you’re welcome.”
“No offense,” Tim said, gesturing vaguely at the ghost’s general aesthetic, “but out of all the deathly horrors floating around the great beyond, they sent you ? To haunt a seventeen-year-old? That feels less like a haunting and more like a prank.”
The ghost looked wounded. “Hey! I’m almost eighteen, okay? May. I’ll be legal haunting age in May.”
“Oh, my bad,” Tim deadpanned. “Didn’t mean to disrespect the barely-dead.”
“I’ll have you know,” the ghost said with an indignant huff, “I’ve done plenty of respectable hauntings. Caverns, riverbanks, the occasional cursed outhouse—some of my best screams happened in the dark near public bathrooms. People don’t expect that.”
Tim blinked. “That’s… horrifyingly specific.”
“Yeah, well.” The ghost floated an inch higher, puffing himself up. “This is my first time with a house assignment. Like, real domestic ghosting. It’s different. More rules. Which, full disclosure, I may have forgotten in a panic.”
Tim raised an eyebrow. “You forgot the rules?”
“I was flustered!” the ghost said, waving his hands. “This was supposed to be a solo gig! Most houses are already full of angry spirits or possessive phantoms. I walk in here, it’s empty, it smells like coffee and teen angst, and suddenly I forget the Five Good Rules of Proper Haunting like a chump.”
For the first time all night, Tim actually felt a pang of sympathy. The poor guy looked genuinely distressed—if glowing slightly more greenish with every anxious word could be called distressed.
He sighed. “Okay, Casper Junior, come on. You’re lucky I have a soft spot for emotionally unstable floaty things.”
The ghost followed him into the kitchen like a lost puppy, feet not touching the floor. Tim rifled through the fridge. “You hungry? I mean, I don’t actually know if ghosts eat , but Alfred leaves sandwiches in here in case someone forgets how to human.”
The ghost lit up like a Christmas tree. “You’d share your sandwich? With me ?”
“Why not? You’ve already crashed my night, might as well raid the fridge too. Do ghosts get the munchies?”
“Mostly when we’re nervous,” he admitted sheepishly. “Could I have, like… a slice of bread?”
Tim narrowed his eyes. “One slice? What is this, Dickensian haunting hour? Take the whole sandwich.”
He tossed one on a plate and slid it across the counter. The ghost took it carefully, holding it with both glowing hands like it might evaporate on contact. And then he actually ate it—sort of. The bread shimmered, his hands flickered, and the edges of his form grew even wavier as he chewed.
“Okay,” Tim said, sitting down and watching this happen like it was a science experiment. “This is weird. You’re getting more translucent by the second.”
The ghost shrugged, still munching. “It’s a side effect. Carbs make me wispy. Worth it, though.”
“You’re the strangest haunting I’ve ever had,” Tim muttered, sipping his coffee again. “And I’ve been possessed before.”
The ghost swallowed and brightened. “Wanna hear the Rules? I remember them now.”
“By all means,” Tim said, leaning back and gesturing dramatically. “Enlighten me with the sacred tenets of Ghost Etiquette 101.”
The ghost nodded solemnly, took one last bite of the sandwich, and cleared his throat. His whole form shimmered in the low kitchen light like he was built from candle smoke and faint northern lights. Tim thought it had no right to look that pretty.